


Practice

by OmgReally



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Comeplay, Experienced!Mando, F/M, Fingerfucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Mild Allusions to Fluff, One Shot, Overstimulation, Prompt Fill, Quiet Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, The Helmet Stays On, Top Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29801406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmgReally/pseuds/OmgReally
Summary: You ask the Mandalorian how he became so - ahem -talented.He demonstrates. With his fingers.“You just seem to...to know what you’re doing, that’s all,” you tell him, swallowing past your apprehension. “Makes it seem like you have a lot of, ah,practice.”Kriff, it doesn’t matter how many times you do this, he still makes you nervous. Maybe it’s because you know what he can do to you now. It’s not just a threat, but a promise.“I knowyou,” Mando says, and the rumble in his voice sends a shiver through your recently-sated body. He underscores it with a sweep of a rough palm down your back, his fingertips tracing the hollow dip of your spine. “We’ve practicedplenty.”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 134





	Practice

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt fill](https://omgreally.tumblr.com/post/644550078948950017/could-i-request-9-31-and-maybe-a-little-27) for anonymous from my [40 NSFW Prompts](https://omgreally.tumblr.com/post/644371338460610560/40-nsfw-prompts-requests) list on my tumblr!
> 
> 9 - _Experience_  
>  31 - _Stamina_  
>  27 - _Quiet_

Din Djarin has self-discipline like Beskar and stamina to match. You have wondered, on more than one occasion, if he wasn’t a droid; if underneath all that armor are just actuators and servos and wires driving him, nothing human at all. When you found out otherwise, you were pleasantly surprised, but  _ Maker  _ \- the Mandalorian wears you out.

Whenever you get the chance - when the child is sleeping, usually, between planets or docked with Peli looking after him - Mando can go for  _ hours _ . Whether it’s holding you up pressed against a bulkhead, bending you over the control panel, taking you in the soft, warm darkness of his bunk - he takes his time. It never feels like a race to the finish with him but a long, slow exploration of pleasure, and just when you think you can’t take any more, when you’re full to bursting with it, with  _ him _ , he makes you watch stars explode behind your eyes.

And then, as soon as you recover the ability to think coherently, he does it again.

You ask him once, as you lie on your side with him in the dark after what had to be several hours and  _ definitely  _ several orgasms, if he’s had a lot of practice. Mando stiffens at the question, his arm tightening around your waist, and his voice is hesitant when it seeps out of the modulator. He keeps his helmet on, of course. It doesn’t bother you - he never gives you enough  _ time  _ to let it bother you.

“Why?”

“You just seem to...to know what you’re doing, that’s all,” you tell him, swallowing past your apprehension. “Makes it seem like you have a lot of, ah,  _ practice _ .” 

Kriff, it doesn’t matter how many times you do this, he still makes you nervous. Maybe it’s because you know what he can do to you now. It’s not just a threat, but a promise. 

“I know  _ you _ ,” Mando says, and the rumble in his voice sends a shiver through your recently-sated body. He underscores it with a sweep of a rough palm down your back, his fingertips tracing the hollow dip of your spine. “We’ve practiced plenty.”

“Well - yes,” you’re forced to agree, your breath hitching as his fingers ghost up and over your hip and trail threateningly across your upper thigh. “But that’s not what I’m asking.”

“What are you asking me, mesh’la?” You feel the brush of cold metal against your neck as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, the side of the helm pressing into your cheek. You grab his forearm as his hand dips between your legs, his fingers raking through the soft curls of your mound. 

“Are you asking me how I learned to do - this?” He punctuates the word by seating two fingers against your clitoris, and you gasp and arch back against him, nestling your rear into the cradle of his hips and  _ Maker _ , he’s hard again; how can he be hard  _ again _ ? 

“Or this?” His other arm slides underneath you, between your body and the thin mattress of the cot, and he grabs your breast with one broad, strong hand. He kneads the supple flesh first, just as he knows you like, before he brushes his fingers over your nipple, drawing a small noise from your throat. 

“I-” you begin, but you’re cut off when his clever fingers between your legs trail lower, sliding into your folds, which are puffy from earlier friction and sticky with your combined fluids. You groan under your breath as he gathers his own come with the pads of two digits and pushes it up into you, sliding in effortlessly to the third knuckle.

“Or maybe you’d like to find out how I learned to do  _ this _ ,” he continues smoothly, his chest rumbling against your back with the words but you can barely concentrate on them when he crooks his fingers and finds that place within you, one that nobody has ever found before - no man, woman, or even  _ yourself  _ \- one that makes your eyes roll back in your head and your mouth open on brazen, panting moans.

“ _ Quiet _ ,” Mando growls, pinching your nipple, which has the exact opposite effect - you let out a soft yelp that is quickly muffled as he brings his hand up and covers your mouth with his wide palm. “Don’t wanna wake the kid.” 

You nod, but he doesn’t let you go, because he knows you get off on this, too. You like it when he smothers you with his hand, his fingers, and once or twice even his glove - you  _ like _ losing control and having him force it on you. You get the feeling he likes it, too, if the press of his erection against your backside is anything to go by.

The Mandalorian makes no effort to relieve himself, though, concentrating instead on the slow, rocking cant of his fingers inside you. You’re sore from earlier, but the stretch and burn feels inexplicably  _ good _ , pushing you ever towards the familiar, tingling ache spreading between your legs. And when he seats the pad of his thumb against your clit, well, you stand no chance against it.

You buck in his grip and Mando holds you still, his arms like durasteel bars around your body, clamping you to him. You squeeze his forearm, feeling the muscle flex beneath your hands in whip-tight cords, and you muffle your moans against his palm, which soon grows slick with your saliva and sweat. His helmet presses hard into your shoulder, as hard as his length presses against your ass, and his fingers make obscene wet sounds as they move, pushing and flexing and thrusting-

You come with a drawn-out, smothered cry, your hips jerking against his fist, and he keeps his fingers and his thumb moving through it, drawing out the blinding surge of pleasure. Somehow, he knows to stop just short of overstimulation - prying his wrist from between your clamping thighs and massaging the taut flex of your abdomen through the aftershocks.

When you stop whimpering, he eases his hand away from your mouth, and you gasp and pant into the warm air, inhaling the smell of sex and sweat, both yours and his - but, right now, mostly  _ yours _ .

“The answer is you, cyar’ika,” he tells you, and your heart skips a beat, independent of the physiological aftereffects of your orgasm. “I learned it from you.”

“Oh,” you murmur. He lets you reach up and back to stroke his helm, as tenderly as if it is his hair, his cheek, his face. “Then - I guess I have -  _ mmh  _ \- myself to thank.”

His chuckle warms the space between your lungs and spine and you arch against him when you’re capable of movement again. The vocabulator picks up his stuttered breath and diffuses it in your ear, and you grin as you reach back for him.

“I’ve learned a few things from you, too,” you tell him. “Want me to show you?”

One hand curls around your knee and lifts, and the other cradles your throat. Just gently. A promise, not a threat. 

“If you can be quiet,” he says, already rocking against you. He is going to be the death of you. 

“Can  _ you _ ?”

You can hear the grin in his voice. “We’ll find out.”

And you do.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi on tumblr](http://omgreally.tumblr.com) where I will also be posting smut


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